The Orchid The Storyteller
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A Kind Of Love Story free porn video
A Kind of Love Story
By Serenissima
Loneliness, intense body-numbing loneliness, caused me to escape my
claustrophobic hole and go out to the pub. I wandered the streets for
an hour, searching for a place I could relax and be amongst people.
Eventually I found one that seemed quiet and unthreatening without
looking like a morgue's waiting room, and went inside.
I asked the bar-man for half a pint. This is always a risky venture for
the likes of me, but also a good test on progress. Here's how it goes:
If they give the beer to you in a thin-stemmed goblet with a wink, a
smile, and a miniature umbrella, then sorry gal, you've got a long way
to go yet. On the other hand, if they give it to you in a dimpled glass
with a handle, ask you if you want to buy some risque videos from under
the counter, and invite you to meet their sister, then you've arrived.
Usually I just get the helter-skelter look and a neutral straight-sided
glass. If the bar-tender is particularly cocky, he might look you
directly in the eye and ask if it's for a man or a lady. You could
always stare right back at him and say, truthfully, 'yes', but don't
expect him to work out the logic.
He gave me my half in a straight-sided glass, with a funny look and a
mumbled 'cheers'. Not one of my better days then! Too ugly to be a
woman, too feminine to be a proper man. Oh hum. Still, could be worse.
I'd heard from a friend earlier; He'd been born with one ovary and one
testicle. The white-coats in their wisdom had made him a 'he' as a
child. Now he'd discovered he had testicular cancer, and his one
remaining gonad had to come off before cancer ran rampant through his
lymph nodes. Sheesh, now that is bad luck.
I sat on a stool and looked around the bar. Not very busy tonight; a
group of youths posturing machismatically by the pool table; an old
couple sitting with nothing left to say to each other; a giggle of
office-girls de-briefing each other on the day's gossip; and a man
sitting alone looking at me. Or was it a man? I found myself doing the
inspection people do to me; looking for my breasts; checking out my
shoes; staring at my hands; looking for an Adam's apple.
If I'd been closer I'd have visually searched his top lip for evidence
of shaving, or looked to see if both his ears were pierced. Our eyes
locked. A communication of mutual curiosity. A ghost of a smile
flickered across his lips. And then he broke the gaze and looked down
at a book on his lap.
"Watcha love! You not with anyone?" It was one of the gawky youths, who
had come to the bar to refuel.
"Nope," I muttered.
"Can I get you anything?"
"I've just got one," I said, indicating my still full glass.
"Four pints of Best," he said to the bar-man, and then to me, "some
crisps then?"
I shook my head and swiveled away from him on the stool.
"Ungrateful bitch," he muttered, and I reddened.
When he went back to his mates I saw him pointing to me, and one of his
friends laughed loudly. The youth returned to the bar.
He stood in front of me and stared threateningly into my eyes. "You're
a puff, ain't you?"
I moved my palms out from my body, shrugging. What's it to do with him
what I am?
"I nearly bought you a drink. What would that have made me?" he said.
There was nothing I could reply.
"We don't want your sort here," he said, his yellow teeth bared, his
spittle flecking my cheek. "You've got your own gay-bars, stay there.
Then we know where to go to burn the lot of you." He raised a clenched
fist at me.
"I'm not gay . . . ," I started to protest, but knew it was no good.
How can you explain to a Neanderthal that you exist outside their
sexual arena? That their concepts of homo- or hetero- sexuality do not,
could not, apply to yourself?
"Christ, you make me wanna puke!" he started shouting at me now. The
bar-man looked on impassively. "You fucking freak! You disgusting
shit!"
I squirmed on my stool, too scared to make a run for it, too ashamed of
myself to argue. He did have a point. Who was I, The Outcast, to expect
the status quo to make allowances for me?
"Excuse me," said a voice.
The youth turned round, and it was the man I'd seen earlier behind him.
The man smartly drew up his knee and made sharp contact with the
youth's tender region. The youth buckled over, then staggered back to
his friends to a chorus of their jeers.
"They'll all come back for me now," I predicted from experience.
"No they won't. And if they do I'll throw them out. I own the pub."
I smiled at my protector, and he smiled sweetly back.
"I'm Caz," he said.
"Andie," I returned.
"From the Greek 'andros', meaning 'manly'. You're parents had a sense
of irony then."
For some reason I didn't take this as an insult, as he said it with
such gentle humour. Like he were sharing a private joke. "More probably
wishful thinking," I responded.
I looked Caz over. His slim body was neatly dressed in smart casual
unisex, with bobbed medium-length brown hair and a kind, open face. He
gave off a musky vanilla scent a world away from the stale kebab smell
of most men. The thought occurred to me that we were very alike, too
alike to be normal.
I stared down at my beer, still un-tasted. Caz pulled up a bar-stool
and sat beside me. Gently, he touched my hand. Then he echoed my own
thoughts; "We are the same, aren't we, you and I?"
A thousand emotions washed over me. "I very much doubt it," I said
angrily.
"Hey, come on Andie. We're survivors. We've faced up to worse terrors
than those turds at the pool-table ever have."
"Terrors!" I spat, and it all came out, all the bile, all the fear.
Things I had never admitted to anyone, never mind a stranger I'd just
met. "Like the terror of being forcibly trans-sexed and you're not old
enough to understand why? I mean, do you know what its like suddenly
being dressed as a boy and thrown onto the playground to cope? To have
your childhood dreams of princesses and marriage and babies and pretty
dresses sliced out of you along with your eggs? To wake up every
morning and know you are a biological cul-de-sac with nothing to live
for and no-one to love you? Can you imagine the shame of showing myself
naked to a lover, that she might see my hysterectomy scar or laugh at
the plastic surgeon's idea of a prick?"
Caz nodded throughout my outburst. "I do Andie, I do. I've been through
it all myself."
"Impossible!" I said, feeling un-natural superiority; no-one was as
god-forsaken, as weird, as totally apart from everyone else. I was
Sartre's 'Outsider', and Frankenstein's Monster and Steven in 'The Well
of Loneliness', all chopped up and sown into one body in the operating
theatre.
"It is possible," Caz said, patting my hand. "For example, my name is
short for Caroline." And his blue eyes sparkled with love and mirth,
and his delicate lips gleamed with longing, and his cheeks flushed with
anticipation. "I've waited a lifetime for this. A meeting with one of
my own."
I apologised with my eyes, then leaned forward, and he enveloped me in
his arms. "The pool guys will be loving this spectacle," I whispered,
as he stroked my hair. I buried my nose into his sweet-smelling neck.
"Don't worry about them, my treasure. Don't worry about the world. They
are right about something though,"
"Yes?" I asked, puzzled.
"You are homosexual. It's just you've never met anyone the same sex as
yourself before."
And I laughed.
FIN
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